


Upper Hand

by tcheschire



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! - All Media Types, Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Dude Probably Has Wicked Digital Dexterity, Enemies to Lovers to ????, F/M, NSFW, One Night Stands, Otogi Is a Gentleman and You Can Fight Me, Power-Bottom Otogi, Smug Doctoral Student Being Smug, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:48:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21962362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tcheschire/pseuds/tcheschire
Summary: Exhausted from a gaming convention, you keep running into a man who is just too easy to rile.
Relationships: Otogi Ryuuji | Duke Devlin/Reader
Kudos: 42





	Upper Hand

**Author's Note:**

> So I binge-watched YGOTAS and my hand slipped. Merry Christmas!

It was a fun convention, all told. There had been panels of retired players from various mediums, booths with merchandise, workshops for new and old games, and even informal mini-tournaments and nooks for campaigns. This being Domino, you were surprised that Duel Monsters wasn’t the entire focus – this city, it seemed, had not forgotten its heritage.  
  
Which was perfect, frankly. It would be a shame if the only information you were able to collect was for Duel Monsters. The world, you thought, had rather enough of _that_.  
  
You weren’t a huge gamer, yourself – you had collected Capsule Monsters when you were very young because you liked the monsters and your parents kept buying them for you, and a boyfriend in high school had corralled you into playing a couple campaigns of Monster World, but none had really stuck with you. However, growing up in such a concentrated gamer culture as Domino gave you a particular insight when you left for college, and then eventually grad school.  
  
If your hometown had anything left to offer you, you thought wryly, then it would certainly help you finish your dissertation.  
  
You made your way through the convention, duly attending workshops for games with which you had little experience, seating yourself close enough to the microphone during panels that you could jump up and ask the questions you had prepared, and chatting amiably with players while they enjoyed their informal games with their newest booster and expansion packs. You even caved and bought yourself a vintage digital pet keychain, pocketing it with a warm tug of nostalgia.  
  
There was the token Duel Monsters game, of course, and you rolled your eyes at the excessive shit-talking and, more importantly, the grandiosity. The convention had its own Duel Monsters wing, because of course it did, and it was noticeably more advanced than the other sections of the convention, because of course it was: digital marquees and enormous bright displays, sleek tile and chrome accents abound. You sipped your commemorative bottled water, took notes in the commemorative notepad with the commemorative pen, and left after the one game; it was all you could bear.  
  
Heading out of that wing, conveniently placed, was a game that you had heard of but never played: Dungeon Dice Monsters. It was more popular in the UK than Duel Monsters, you remembered vaguely, and with some interest you saw that there was a workshop currently running.  
  
You checked the convention schedule against your watch. It had only just started. With a shrug, you slipped in and seated yourself near the door; it couldn’t hurt to listen.  
  
The workshop wasn’t crammed, but still had a decent number of seats filled. Stragglers coming out of the Duel Monsters demonstrations, you hazarded based on the number of Duel Disks in the room. Whoever ran this section was smart, then, to snag the space nearest the Duel Monsters area – you couldn’t imagine what they would have had to have done to reserve the space, or how much money the rental cost.  
  
Although it was clear that the majority were duelists, their attention was rapt, and many adapted to the game easily. At first you assumed it was due to the capability of the leader of the workshop, a lean, angular young man with black hair, but the more you listened, the more it dawned on you: the placement wasn’t just strategic, the entire game was strategically just outside of Duel Monsters’ periphery. There were differences, certainly, but the borrowed elements far outnumbered them.  
  
After around fifteen minutes, the leader of the workshop had the room split into groups as desired to play a test game at the designated tables. Just as much as the space rental, you wondered how much the tables cost: they were custom rigs, and they certainly weren’t a sloppy modification. With another shrug, you seated yourself at one of the tables, shooting the boy a friendly smile and tucking your bag underneath your seat.  
  
With one final primer on the basic concept, you shook the boy’s hand and allowed him to go first. He got the hang of it quickly, making some small mistakes early on but noticing them within the next turn, but there was one mistake that many in the room could not seem to shake – the concept of territory. Cutting the opponent off at the knees wasn’t something many of them were used to doing, and it was a foreign idea to many of them, not being able to summon.  
  
Additionally, you thought, being able to conceptualize the area of the dice gave a player an advantage. You had handily sped through your math courses in school, so it came naturally to you. You won the match quickly enough, and shook the boy’s hand again, laughing and dismissing your victory as beginner’s luck.  
  
He seemed unconvinced, and the small group of his friends seemed of the same mind. “No way, you’ve played this before,” he accused petulantly.  
  
With a small laugh, you stood, scooping your bag and hefting it onto your shoulder. “I promise I haven’t. I’m a novice here. But you guys,” you continued, gesturing at their Duel Disks, “this should be old hat for you, right?”  
  
They all glanced at the equipment on their wrists, startled, and paused to think. After a beat, one of them said, “I guess. Wasn’t the game made by the same company?”  
  
Another brushed him off with a scoff. “KaibaCorp? No way, they’re all about Duel Monsters.”  
  
“No, you idiot, KaibaCorp didn’t make Duel Monsters, they just sponsor it,” your opponent shot back. “I think he’s right, I think they are made by the same company.”  
  
“Yeah, Industrial Illusions, right?” That much you knew. There was an empty booster box nearby, and you flipped it upside down, flashing the logo to the boys. “Looks like he’s right. So that makes sense, given all the similarities.”  
  
When you stood, you had attracted the attention of the workshop’s leader, and he had made his way over to you, presumably to offer assistance – however, the closer he got, his interest seemed piqued first by your quick victory, and then by your conversation. “They’re not that similar,” he began. “Yes, they’re both produced by Industrial Illusions, but the concept of the game is very different.” He gestured to the board, tracing your die’s path with a finger. “For one, there’s not territory in Dungeon Dice Monsters, and that’s an important distinction.”  
  
“Sure,” you conceded, “but many of the monsters are the same, and the monsters have abilities – often matching their abilities in Duel Monsters. It’s a clever marketing strategy, honestly.”  
  
“Ah, I hadn’t even though of that,” your opponent said thoughtfully, picking up one of the dice he had used to summon – by his own admission, it was his favorite monster, and he was familiar with its ability for that reason.  
  
With infinite patience, the leader of the workshop insisted, “Maybe so, but there are entirely different strategies at play in Dungeon Dice Monsters. Collecting crests from your rolls and using them strategically is – “  
  
“Exactly like using magic and trap cards in Duel Monsters,” you cut him off with a light laugh. “You’ve got limited space, and you have to decide which effects are more valuable to you.”  
  
With slightly less patience, he countered, “But the collection of them is different – you can run out of magic and trap cards, and the space to use them in Duel Monsters.” Though his face was calm, his green eyes lit with each word, and you could see this conversation had already frustrated him.  
  
“Sure, that part is different – but dude, I mean, you have to admit they’re basically the same,” you said with a chuckle. When you had time, you wanted to make sure you notated this conversation as best you could remember – if it continued in the way you thought it would, then it would be a wonderful addition to the information you had already collected. “I mean, it’s even located right outside of Duel Monsters’ doors – literally!” you added, gesturing to the flashy explosion that had just swept into view from the running Duel Monster’s match down the corridor.  
  
Some color began to rise on his neck, and the careful expression on his face faltered. “This area has easily the highest foot traffic in the convention, but that doesn’t mean the games are related,” he insisted, and you detected the edge forming in his voice with a small grin.  
  
Instead of answering, you glanced pointedly over your shoulder at the stylized banner of the Black Magician attacking an enormous dark knight in purple armor, then met his eyes again with a shrug and a smile.  
  
The flush on his neck travelled swiftly up his neck, spreading to his ears and across his cheeks. “That shot was taken from a famous match between gaming legends,” he ground out, his shoulders becoming tense as you noticed his hands ball into fists.  
  
You held your hands up in a gesture of peace, laughing in a way you hoped was harmless. “Okay, dude. It’s cool, I’m not committed to the idea, but I mean – “ you glanced over your shoulder at the poster again, “ – the evidence is literally written on the wall.”  
  
Before he could offer his rebuttal, a young girl behind him tugged lightly on his shirt. The anger flushed from his body immediately, and he turned to face her, kneeling to get down on her level.  
  
With a small smile at the girl, who was stuck in her game and needed direction to move forward, you took the opportunity to slip out of the room. It had been a good day, you had some harmless genuine fun in addition to collecting information that you needed, but you had your fill of the gaming environment. You wanted to type up your notes and rid yourself of the heft of your bag on your shoulder, and then you wanted a drink.  
  
You took the stairs to your hotel room two at a time, eagerly dumping your bag in the armchair before depositing yourself on the bed and unlocking the drawer to the bedside table, slipping your laptop out and booting it. You finished the water from your commemorative bottle and tossed it, digging out the notepad. A brief glance at the clock told you it was still early afternoon, and you contented yourself to work for a little while.  
  
A short hour later you had transcribed your notes and added a few rough sections to your outline, shutting the laptop with a satisfied _snap_ and locking it away again. Stiff from the convention, your stretched your shoulders a bit, washed your face, and made your way back down to the hotel bar. It was your standard affair, overpriced well drinks and appetizers, but at the moment it sounded wonderful. Tugging the barstool out, you seated yourself and flagged the bartender, ordering yourself a drink after perusing the menu briefly.  
  
It was quiet, blessedly, and you were able to enjoy your drink in relative peace for a while. There was another table on the other end of the bar with tourists, and one more in the back corner occupied by what you assumed were businessmen. Otherwise, you enjoyed the quiet.  
  
After close to half an hour, the bartender looked up from his magazine and waved, reaching for a glass and mixed a drink without being asked. From behind you, you heard a voice greet the bartender with some familiarity, and thank him for the drink. Glancing out of the corner of your eye, you saw that it was the leader of the Dungeon Dice Monster workshop – he looked spent, but otherwise satisfied. When his eyes lighted on you, though, you saw a flash immediately spark in them, and his brows turned downward into a scowl. You lifted your glass to him, winking. “It’s you. Hello, you,” you greeted pertly.  
  
Predictably, this irritated him more, and his scowl deepened; although he had pulled out the barstool to sit and the bartender had set his drink in front of him, he did not sit, his posture immediately becoming defensive. “You. What’s your problem with me, anyway?” he snapped, snatching the drink from the counter, bringing it to his lips briefly before setting it down without drinking.  
  
You raised your eyebrows in amusement. Had you really gotten under his skin so badly, so quickly? “No problem here. I was having a conversation, and you didn’t like what I had to say. It sounds to me like you have the problem,” you pointed out, appraising him coyly.  
  
“Because you’re wrong!” Heat rose to his face and brought a flush to his cheeks, and his green eyes flashed with righteous fury.  
  
“Hmm, I don’t know,” you murmured pensively. “I mean, they do seem _awful_ similar – you monster, you attack, you defend, you magic, you trap. It certainly _sounds_ like Duel Monsters. And there are even actual Duel Monsters in it.”  
  
This, apparently, was exactly the right thing to say – his hackles rose immediately, and you could practically hear him grinding his teeth. “I didn’t put those in there!” he exclaimed defensively, perhaps a little too loudly – from further down the bar, the bartender frowned at him and shook his head, wagging his finger in a distinctly disappointed gesture.  
  
You snickered into your hand briefly, enjoying riling him, before the penny dropped. “Ah!” you chirped. “So that’s why you’re so mad – it’s your game, and you don’t like being called out. I get it, I guess, I wouldn’t want to either, but frankly Duel Monsters is such a prolific experience, it would be an easier time finding things that didn’t borrow heavily from it – wouldn’t it just be easier to own it? It’s not something to be ashamed of.”  
  
It wasn’t even difficult anymore, and each prod needled him further into indignant fury. His teeth were fully bared in a grimace by this point, and you had a hunch that if you pushed him any further he would begin to shout in earnest.  
  
You cast him a pitying glance, and nudged the barstool out somewhat with a foot. “Dude, sit down, enjoy your drink. You’re going to give yourself an ulcer if you keep looking at me like that,” you added, trying very hard to keep the laugh from your voice.  
  
He did not, in fact, sit. Still, he allowed himself to take a drink from his glass before repeating, more firmly, “Dungeon Dice Monsters and Duel Monster are not remotely similar, and the additions you’re referring to were added after its conception.”  
  
It was clearly a conversation he had had before; his tone spoke of a hundred sighs, a thousand eye rolls, and a million disbelieving gamers. His posture was rigid, though, and it seemed that he truly believed in his game, and he truly believed that it was unique. It wasn’t something that he would back down on, not now, perhaps not ever.  
  
So, smiling indulgently, you said, “Okay.”  
  
“They’re not the same!” he snapped, swiveling to face you more fully. The fire burned more brightly in his eyes, and his jaw set. “I’ll prove it to you – I challenge you to – “  
  
You could not even let the gauntlet to be thrown, tossing your head back in a laugh. “Oh, honey, hard pass. I don’t play these things,” you told him, raising your glass to take another drink.  
  
So fully taken aback was he that he finally sat, blinking in shock. “What do you mean, you don’t play? Like, Duel Mon – “  
  
“Oh, no, anything.” You waved a hand vaguely in dismissal. “I don’t game – no dungeons, warcraft, or whathaveyou for me. This trip is purely academic. Don’t get me wrong,” you elaborated hurriedly, “I have _played games_ , and I don’t think it’s a _bad_ pastime, but it’s not for me.”  
  
His brow furrowed with the influx of information. “Academic? Then what are you even doing at the convention? You were in the audience for a number of panels, and your questions for the QAs were too sharp for someone who doesn’t know anything about gaming.”  
  
Oh that was interesting – he was correct, you had definitely been in the audience for a number of panels, and you had definitely asked questions during all of them, but at what point did _he_ notice that? You didn’t remember any panels where he had been a presenter, and his fatigue indicated he had been teaching all day. His tone still held a distinct challenge, but was not nearly as hostile as it had been previously; it almost sounded as though he were genuinely curious.  
  
_All right, can’t hurt_. “My dissertation,” you admitted.  
  
“And what’s it about, how being pretty and hostile makes up for a lack of personality?”  
  
“Talking about yourself?” You didn’t take his ferocity to heart, chuckling softly and taking another sip of your drink. Before he could respond to the barb, you turned to face him, resting your cheek against a fist and curling your lips into a sardonic smile. “No, it’s actually about the correlation between megalomania and gaming addiction.”  
  
He seemed about to rebut, opening his mouth, then thinking better of it and closing it with a snap. Still visibly irritated, he took a sharp swallow of his drink, finally admitting, “You’ll certainly find enough examples of that in Duel Monsters.”  
  
His tone told you that this man had _seen_ some things, and you itched to pry, but refrained. “More than enough,” you agreed instead, shifting yourself to face him fully, and recrossing your legs, positioning yourself sideways on the barstool. “And now I need information about games that aren’t Duel Monsters, and other stages of development.”  
  
As soon as the subject changed, so too did the dynamic – the two of you still exchanged the occasionally barb, but both your and his body language became significantly more open. You allowed yourself a moment to babble about your study, and you caught his eyes softening at the change in your demeanor. More than once, you noticed his eyes beginning to take in the rest of you, tracing the lines of your face, traveling down and across your shoulders, before doggedly dragging back up to your eyes.  
  
You weren’t offended. Frankly, you were doing the same thing.  
  
He was _very_ nice to look at. Long legs, lean arms, slim waist. And that _hair_. Even in the low light of the hotel bar, it had a healthy shine, and you resisted the urge to reach out to “accidentally” brush against it. Instead, you tossed your own hair over your shoulder, relishing in the way his eyes immediately tracked the motion.  
  
Finishing the last dregs of your drink, you paused for a moment, head canted. Finally, you said, “Do you want to come up to my room?”  
  
This brought him short, and all the indignation instantly sapped from his eyes, replaced by something unidentifiable. “What?”  
  
Smirking, you jerked a thumb over your shoulder. “I have a suite here. For the convention,” you explained. “I was wondering if you wanted to come up.”  
  
There was a moment of consideration, but when he agreed there was no self-conscious hesitation in his voice. Although his drink went unfinished, he dug into his pocket and deposited some cash onto the counter – enough, you noticed, to cover his drink and yours. You raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, simply mirroring the motion and meeting his eyes in challenge, turning on your heel and striding from the bar without looking back to see if he was following.  
  
He caught up easily, his legs longer than yours. If you expected the walk up to your room to be awkward, you would have been disappointed: the two of you continued chatting comfortably, even up to your door. You glanced at him over your shoulder, and he offered you a self-assured smirk, gesturing with a small nod to enter your room.  
  
You swept in, allowing him to get the door behind you as you slipped your shoes off, dropping the keycard indelicately on the bureau.  
  
“I’d offer you a drink, to make up for the one you left behind downstairs, but I honestly don’t intend for you to stay that long.” You smiled, only slightly abashed. “I’m sure you understand.”  
  
The smirk remained on his lips, and he tilted his head. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to make it up to me.”  
  
In such a short period of time, you had seen this man go through a variety of emotional states, but the one thing that remained was the intensity in his eyes. You locked gazes with him, and took a moment to immerse yourself in it. “I’m sure,” you agreed, closing the distance between the two of you and taking the initiative to corner him.  
  
There was a long moment then, that drawn out moment when you weren’t quite touching, your eyes still locked on the other’s, a hair’s breadth between you as a warmth expanded to every part of your body. It was you that broke the stalemate, your gaze flicking down to his lips, and his smirk widened as he tilted his head downward, so slowly.  
  
This was your favorite part, honestly. The anticipation, the buildup, the teasing-before-teasing. Your breath hitched and you felt his, warm against your lips as he stopped just short. You bridged the gap, covering his mouth with yours, hands moving to his hips, your thumbs hooking into his belt and tugging, pressing your bodies together.  
  
In these first moments, he seemed content to let you direct the course of motion, entirely unbothered by his back being pressed against the door. He didn’t move except to mirror you, his hands only making small exploratory motions when you guided them where you wanted them.  
  
He was reacting, you realized. Surveilling, feeling out where the boundaries were.  
  
He was _strategizing_.  
  
Finally, he pressed, slipping long fingers underneath your top and shimmying it upwards – you raised your arms and allowed him to pull it from you. The shirt had barely cleared your head before his hands returned to you, one cupping your hip and the other carving a line up your back, past your shoulders into the nape of your neck, unraveling your hair from its tie.  
  
He bucked his hips forward, pushing off of the door and using the momentum to guide you backward, your knees catching the edge of the couch in the room. Before your back hit the cushions, he caught you, swiveling your bodies so that your positions switched, and he fell to his back, pulling you down on top of him.  
  
His fingers bunched in your hair and tugged your head back gently, his lips immediately meeting the column of your throat. Through a groan, you managed to gasp, “Promise me something?”  
  
Only the flick of his eyes and the gentle _hm?_ told you that he had heard, as otherwise he continued his journey down, dragging his teeth gently across your collarbone.  
  
“No talking about games.” His hand had begun to snake up the back of your thigh, and you grabbed his wrist, guiding it up to cup your ass firmly.  
  
This drew a soft snort from him. “You don’t think this is a kind of game?” His head traveled further downward, ever slowly, his lips whispering across the tops of your breasts.  
  
The smirk returned to your lips, and you arched your back impatiently as he tugged one cup of your bra down, taking a nipple into his mouth contemplatively. “If it is, which ones of us does that make the winner?” you taunted, promptly hissing as he gave your nipple a sharp suck.  
  
The look he gave you was of sharp admonishment, your nipple freeing from his lips with a soft _pop_. “You’re right,” he said, the hand that was on your buttock sliding up the small of your back to unhook the bra, tossing it over his shoulder. “Let’s not talk about games.”  
  
“Say something sexy,” you growled into his hair, inhaling deeply the smell of musk and ozone, the sharp tang of sweat and heat.  
  
“Something sexy? And I can’t talk about games? You have too many rules, I don’t know how I’m supposed to be successful, here,” he quipped dryly, idly sweeping your hair over your shoulder before mirroring the gesture with his.  
  
It was so unexpected that you burst into laughter, a stitch forming in your side. You had to brace yourself against his body, resting your head against his shoulder until you could regain your composure.  
  
When you righted yourself, only traces of giggles coming from your mouth as you attempted to regain the mindset you had previously, he smirked, leaning forward to kiss the tears of laughter that had appeared at the corners of your eyes. “That’s what I go for,” he told you, “laughter is the most encouraging thing a man can hear.” Though he presented a sardonic façade, you could hear how pleased he was with himself.  
  
“Don’t worry,” you cooed, sliding your hands down his chest, slipping them under his shirt impatiently. “I am certain there will be more encouraging sounds to come.”  
  
“Oh?” He allowed you to remove his shirt, his fingers tucking into the edge of your pants. “Tell me how I might hear them.”  
  
“A good first step would be to get these pants off.”  
  
“Mm, they do seem to be in the way,” he said, flicking the button open with a thumb and sliding the fly down deftly. His fingers returned to peel the pants away from your hips, sliding them down before allowing you to kick them off.  
  
Returning to the couch, you swung a leg over his hips to straddle him, availing yourself the opportunity to streak your fingers through his hair, which had also come free of its restraint and had spilled over the cushions. It was exactly as cursedly sleek as you thought it would be.  
  
He watched you with some amusement, his hands landing firmly on your hips, once again moving in small exploratory circles, venturing further out; stroking up one side to cup your breast, flicking his thumb over the nipple; the other cupping your ass again and jerking you closer to him. Through the front of his pants, you felt him becoming stiff, and you slid a hand down the lean planes of his torso to delicately trace the outline of his erection against the fabric.  
  
He stifled a groan, keeping his eyes on you, reaching around from behind to slide a finger into your panties and swipe experimentally.  
  
You _hmm_ ed sharply in response, rolling your hips forward in invitation, and he gladly took the hint, peeling away the crotch of your panties and slipping another finger inside of you, his thumb arcing up to brush small circles against your clitoris. A warmth began to build in your pelvis, and you rocked gently against his hand, finding an easy rhythm to stoke yourself against.  
  
Occupied though he was, that intensity never leaving his expression, you couldn’t help but continue to distract him, tracing idle lines against him, slowly moving your fingers to undo the top button, unzip the fly, and slip your fingers through the waist of his boxer briefs. He gave a quick appreciative groan, and his eyelids fluttered slightly, before he took his other hand and guided your hand away with a single finger to your wrist.  
  
“Not yet,” he said, his wink masking the thickness in his voice.  
  
“ _Not yet_ ,” you mimicked softly, leaning forward into his touch with a sigh, continuing to run your fingers through his hair absently, your breath becoming shallower and shallower, each stroke of his fingers digging deeper a pool of warmth that radiated in pulses, gentle waves across your hips, down your legs and through your torso.  
  
Distracted by the sensation, one hand found its way back down to him, and he let a laugh escape. “Stop!” he chuckled, vibrations low in your ear, and secured his hand around your wrist, twisting it around to rest in the small of your back.  
  
He used this leverage to pull you closer to him, increasing the pressure of his thumb against you only just, and you gasped into the crook of his neck. You could hear vaguely how slick you were against his fingers, and the slightest look through your eyelashes found the same look of concentrated attention on his face, intent on his task. Against the inside of your thigh, you felt him twitch, and you were certain it must be taking everything he had to keep his focus.  
  
You gasped again, your breaths coming in short, mewling _ah_ s with each stroke, musical against his ear. Finally he released your hand, and you promptly tugged his pants down from his hips, discarding them fiercely. Briefly, you looked over your shoulder at your bag, and moved to stand for a condom – he halted you, hooking his fingertips in the crook of your knee and pulling you flush against him.  
  
“I’ve got it,” he said, stretching an arm to his trousers, dipping briefly into his pocket, flipping his wallet open briefly before finding what he was looking for. You slipped your soaked panties from your hips while he slid the condom on, and braced yourself with hands against his shoulders, sliding onto him, eliciting a soft sigh from the both of you.  
  
There was a moment of brief stillness while the both of you adjusted to the sensation, and you luxuriated in the feeling of being full, your head lolling back gently. Then, slowly, you began to move against him, keeping your palms fixed against his chest; his hands gripped the backs of your thighs, and just as with before, he allowed you control over the rhythm, taking no motion for granted, meeting every rock of your hips with a languorous buck of his own.  
  
Whatever you had been expecting from this you weren’t entirely sure, but it certainly was not this: he was entranced, certainly, shifting to sit up and pulling your torso against his and capturing your lips, but he was calm. There was nothing frantic about his movement, and even the drag of his fingertips along the curve of your spine seemed calculated. You shivered, bathing in the feeling, gripping the flesh of his hips tightly, and you realized that he was doing the same thing, gazing up through his eyelashes, eyes landing reverently on yours behind the curtain of your hair.  
  
A moan built in the back of your throat, and you heard him mutter a quiet “ _Fuck,_ ” against your shoulder, and you clawed your fingers up the lean expanse of his back, across his shoulders, to the nape of his neck, threading your fingers roughly in the inky void of his hair.  
  
When you finally spent yourself, he finished with a sharp “ _Ah!”_ and rocked once, twice more before falling back onto the cushions, throwing an arm over his eyes. Smirking lightly, you allowed him to regain his breath and slid from him, making your way about the room and sweeping your clothes off of the floor, putting yourself back together as you went.  
  
Tugging your undershirt over your head, you saw him peek out from under his arm, his face still flush and his breath still hitched. “What do you think? We had the show, now what about dinner?"  
  
You laughed brightly, not looking up from fastening your belt. “Slow down there, tiger. You don’t know anything about me.”  
  
He let his arm fall back over his eyes and he laughed, a hoarse sound from the back of his throat. “No, but I would very much like to.”  
  
Scooping his shirt from the floor, you tossed it at him; it landed rakishly over his face, and he laughed again. “I’ll sleep on it,” you told him, tugging your fingers through your hair, delicately kicking his pants toward him.  
  
He took the hint, rising to dress himself. “Guess this means I’ll need your number, then,” he chanced, hopping on one foot to put a sock on; he stumbled slightly as he took his eyes off the prize to look up at you.  
  
This time, you laughed, not looking at him as you made your way into the bathroom. “Not a chance. If I want you, I’ll find _you_ ,” you sang, before closing the door.  
  
You heard the door to your hotel room open, and before it clicked closed, he called, the smirk apparent in his voice, “You will.”


End file.
